


longer letter later

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 10:57:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12816051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Lane's first attempt at a written apology to Mrs. Harris made Sandra's look like bloody Shakespeare by comparison. But he had to make amends. On that much, his conscience was certain.





	longer letter later

_one_

 

At this point, the white blank page was just taunting him.

Lane had never been good at apologizing, although he was forced to do it often enough. Inevitably, the problem with apologizing was that it required making oneself very vulnerable for a protracted period of time.

And it had always been extremely difficult for him to let down his guard. Sometimes he had trouble enough being honest with family members, let alone with a coworker – an acquaintance, really – whom he woefully misjudged.

But, comfortable or not, he had to make amends. On that point, his conscience was certain.

Tragically, his first attempt at a written apology made Sandra's careless version look like bloody Shakespeare by comparison. Lane fussed over the words for far too long, till it resembled a proper letter instead of another inter-office memo: 

 

 

> _3 January 1965_
> 
> _Dear Joan,_
> 
> _Your contributions to this agency are invaluable, and your continued assistance with the books is greatly appreciated. I'm sorry for any actions that indicated otherwise. I hope you can forgive my rudeness._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Lane_

 

Then he set it aside and tried to forget about the damn thing.

After several hours, he almost managed to put the awkwardness out of his mind. He went to lunch at a cafe round the corner, and was walking back to the agency when he noticed a clearance sign in a shop window. Inside, there was a small table on display, filled near to collapse with paperback books.

One of them, pink with blue writing, caught his eye. Perhaps a book would be more appropriate than flowers, all things considered.

Inside, he spent five awkward minutes browsing the fiction section, pretending to be absorbed in Hemingway and Fleming all while working up the nerve to pick up that pink paperback.

Eventually, he set his jaw, collected the item in question, and marched straight up to the register. If the young salesgirl had an observation about his apparent taste in literature, she did not voice it.

By one o’clock, Lane returned to the office, buoyed by the success, as well as the extra drink he'd had during lunch. On an impulse, just before sealing his missive up in its envelope, he added a single, messy line to the bottom of the apology he'd drafted earlier:

 

> _P.S. If you don't care for the attached item, please refrain from lobbing it at my head._

 

 

_two_

 

Joan stared from the letter in her hand to the paperback on her desk, swallowing a surprised laugh. She’d bet good money that Lane didn’t even open this book, or else his postscript wouldn't have been so cheerful.

What on earth prompted him to buy a collection of poems by Dorothy Parker – especially as an apology gift?

Joan didn’t mind the idea. She had read one or two of these pieces, before, and they were funny enough. But it was a strange gift, and it surprised her so much she felt like she had to say something. Honestly, she didn’t think Lane even had a sense of humor.

Opening the middle drawer of her desk, Joan took out a single sheet of creamy stationery, with her initials stamped at the top in elegant loopy script. She tapped her cheap ballpoint pen against the side of her finger for a second before she began to write.

 

> _1/4/65_
> 
>    
> 
> _Dear Lane,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Thank you for the paperback. Rest assured, no one will be throwing this at your desk anytime soon._

 

Pursing her lips as she considered what to write next, Joan decided another little joke would be fine.

  

> _Who knew you had such strong feelings about the Algonquin Round Table?_
> 
>  
> 
> _Sincerely,  
> _ _  
> _ _Joan_

 

 

_three_

 

Lane hadn’t expected a reply to his apology, let alone one that was so – lighthearted?

Honestly, it was rather encouraging, and seemed to speak to both the fact that she a) harbored no unpleasant feelings, and b) wasn’t annoyed or put off by his attempt to smooth things over between them.

Later that night, after he’d gone home, he picked up a legal pad quite by accident, as he was crossing from the kitchen back into the sitting room. Since nothing good was on the set anyway, he ended up grabbing the fountain pen from his desk and writing a reply to her reply. 

 

> _6 January_   
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Joan,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Appreciate your gracious response – much more than I deserve, considering._
> 
> _(It is all right if I use your first name in a letter, isn’t it? Would you prefer otherwise?)_
> 
> _I wouldn’t say that I had strong feelings about any round table except perhaps King Arthur’s, and even then I think I could be persuaded into apathy, given all the mischief those sworn knights got themselves into over the years._
> 
> _Although the Algonquin does make me think of Tallulah Bankhead. Whom my brother quite admired at one time. We saw all her early pictures._
> 
> _Rambling a bit, perhaps, so I’ll bid you farewell. Thank you again for not strangling me._
> 
>  
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Lane_

 

_four_

 

Perched in her desk chair with her legs propped up on a nearby footstool, Joan studied Lane’s newest letter in one hand; she’d found it in her tray this morning, after she’d gone to get a cup of tea from the kitchen.

This one wasn’t stuffy or overly formal or anything else she would have expected from a person like – well. A person who doesn’t always express himself clearly. It was scribbled on a piece of legal paper, and folded hastily into a plain envelope in thirds, as if he’d done it very quickly.

Why did he even write a second one? He’d apologized, and she’d accepted.

Joan thought about asking him this question, flat out, but decided it might be a kindness to honor the spirit of their newfound dialogue. So she took out another piece of stationery from her desk. Floral this time; the one she used to write thank-you letters or notes to old friends.

  

 

> _Dear Lane,_
> 
> _I was so surprised to get your most recent letter. And yes, let’s keep this channel informal, please._
> 
> _Honestly, I don’t think you’ve talked to me this often since we started working here. But I can’t complain; it’s a pleasant change of pace. Imagine the two of us not fighting. I should pinch myself._
> 
> _How is your son doing? I remember you were a little blue to send him home for Christmas. Did he have a nice time in England with your family?_
> 
> _Your line about Tallulah Bankhead makes me remember how much I adored the movies when I was a little girl. Jean Harlow and Clara Bow were my favorites. Although I would have died for a decent movie about King Arthur. I don’t think “A Connecticut Yankee” really counts._

 

Pen poised in the air, Joan bit her lip, deciding how personal she wanted her next sentence to be. They weren’t exactly friends, so she should probably censor herself. 

  

 

> _Haven’t been to the movies in a while - can’t bring myself to go alone. I almost miss it._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Joan_

 

  

 

> _12 January 1965_
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Joan,_
> 
>  
> 
> _If my previous letter was a surprise, this one may well send you into cardiac arrest, so do take care when opening the envelope._
> 
> _You are right that we seem to be entering an unprecedented era of goodwill. I shan’t spoil it by saying something stupid, and will answer some of your questions instead._
> 
> _First – on a bit of a bittersweet note - yes, Nigel enjoyed seeing his grandparents for Christmas. Thank you for inquiring after him. One of his most frequent complaints is that he doesn’t think anyone in New York would notice if he were gone. Obviously I have tried to convince him otherwise, but it’s hard to believe anything dear old Dad tells you, at his age. Even if it’s true._
> 
> ~~_It doesn’t help that_ ~~
> 
> ~~_My wife_ ~~
> 
> _Rebecca is still very homesick, even after two years living in the States. So I’m not sure if they’ll return for a while yet. Nigel will go straight back to school when he comes home, anyway. Well. I suppose he still considers England his home._
> 
> _Do you enjoy the winter? Normally I do, coming right on the heels of Christmas and the New Year, but I’m not quite in the spirit of things this year._
> 
> _If you ever want to re-familiarize yourself with the pictures, and have a bit of free time, feel free to pop in and suggest a showing. I’d be happy to escort you._
> 
> ~~_During the day, I mean._ ~~ _Obviously, we can’t alert any of the juniors, but if we time lunch correctly, Scarlett and Clara will be none the wiser. And you’ll get to recall how marvelous a sticky cinema floors can feel beneath one’s shoes!_
> 
> _It can be difficult to live by yourself, after being married so long. I’m not very good at it, I don’t think, so can’t offer much useful advice._
> 
> _I can, however, state with confidence that Harry Crane’s current choice of neck tie is abhorrent. It should be burned to a crisp immediately, to spare everyone’s eyes._
> 
>  
> 
> _Regards,_
> 
> _Lane_

 

_five_

 

 

 

 

> _1/16/65_
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Lane,_
> 
>  
> 
> _You are so right about Harry’s tie._ _I wonder if he picked it out himself...and if not, what the hell was Jennifer thinking? WIth those polka dots, it looks like a can of pea soup exploded all over him..._
> 
> _That’s a sweet story about Nigel. I’m sure he spent a fair amount of his Christmas vacation on the telephone with all his pals. Does he enjoy school? I can’t imagine what it must be like, living away from home at such a young age._
> 
> _Did you go to boarding school? I keep picturing you in one of those ancient old uniforms, with the dress robes and the funny hats._
> 
> ~~_I appreciate your listening to me complain_ ~~
> 
> _Have to admit, I’m enjoying our correspondence. Since I don’t even like going to the movies alone, you can imagine how well I’m doing living by myself._
> 
> _I’m sorry to hear your family’s still in England. When are they coming home?_
> 
>  
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Joan_
> 
>  
> 
> _20 January_
> 
>  
> 
> _The truth of the matter is that they aren’t coming home. Not to me, anyway._
> 
> ~~_I think that_ ~~
> 
> _Rebecca and I are currently separated, so she’s staying in London indefinitely, with her parents. Her father’s not well, either, which may be the other reason she doesn’t want to return. Nigel is with them now; he’ll stay in England for school. I miss him so terribly. I didn’t think it was possible to miss someone so much._
> 
> _My apologies for burdening you with this news. Not remotely lighthearted, but it’s cast a long shadow over the new year – and it’s why I was in such a foul mood over the holiday. I probably took out much of my frustration on you, for which I will beg your forgiveness once again._
> 
> _Sorry. I’m sure you did not expect to get back a letter full of self pity. As I’m not in the mood to be as cheerful as you might wish, I’ll bid you goodnight._
> 
> _Regards,_ _  
> _ _Lane_
> 
>  
> 
> _1/22/65_
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Lane,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Well, when the hell were you going to tell me about your separation?! 1970?_
> 
> _I feel like such an idiot – I’ve been pestering you with awkward questions about Rebecca for weeks, maybe months! Please tell me to shut my big mouth next time, so I don’t make such a fool of myself._
> 
> _What on earth happened?_
> 
> ~~_Are you getting a_ ~~
> 
> _Are you doing all right? Am I allowed to ask?_
> 
> _Sometimes you’re so opaque about bad things that it’s hard to tell if you want to talk about them. I hope you know that you can, if you like. Or not._
> 
>  
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Joan_
> 
>  
> 
> _P.S. I don’t give a damn if you sound cheerful. Just tell me the truth._
> 
> _P.P.S. I mean it, Lane. Friends don’t hide things from each other – and I’d like to think that we are friends, or at the very least, friendly. I’ve written more letters to you this year than I have to any of my old sorority sisters, which should count for something._
> 
> _P.P.P.S. Why is Pete staring at you in that creepy way? Did you do something to him?_
> 
>  
> 
>  

_six_

   

 

 

> _9 April 1965_
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Joan,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Sad news today - Becca’s father passed early this morning._
> 
> _Although I offered to go over for the funeral, it appears my presence won’t be necessary. She’s filing for divorce, so she doesn’t want to see me._
> 
> _First time I’ve put that in writing. God, it looks so depressing._
> 
> _Hope you’ve got happier things going on at the moment. How is your mother these days? The two of you haven’t got into any more shouting matches on the telephone, I presume? Only the row you mentioned in your last letter seemed rather impressive._
> 
> _If you’d like to take a long lunch in the afternoon, do let me know. I could use a bit of cheering up - and perhaps a film, if there’s anything good on._
> 
>  
> 
> _Cordially,_
> 
> _Lane_

 

  

 

> _11:04AM_
> 
> _Dear Lane,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Let’s plan for twelve thirty. You can tell me all about the phone call then._
> 
> _Can’t say I’m surprised by your news, but divorce is always painful. I’m just sorry you have to go through it._
> 
> _I got an annulment when I was eighteen. Married my high school boyfriend, and left him six months later. Not many people know that._
> 
> _At the time, I kept telling myself that even when you try your best, life just doesn’t work out like you’d planned. So I hope you’re not beating yourself up too much._
> 
> _When are you going to tell Nigel? Or has that already happened?_
> 
> _I would love to see a movie today. See attached for showtimes – I circled a couple that look interesting._
> 
>  
> 
> _Take care,_
> 
> _Joan_

  

 

> _10:45pm_
> 
>  
> 
> _Writing this on the back of some unknown notes from last year – saving paper!_
> 
> _Thank you again for spending some time this afternoon. Know the film wasn’t your usual fare – and when are monster movies ever Oscar-worthy? – but I appreciated the company all the same._
> 
> _We have told Nigel. Honestly, the night Becca and I separated, I think some part of him knew that everything was done. She put him on the phone, and he was just heartbroken. Still doesn’t understand why it’s happened, obviously, but he’s hurt over it. That alone makes me question the entire decision._
> 
> _Although, in truth, I don’t think she’s been happy for a long time._ ~~_Neither have I._ ~~ _Is it selfish to divorce simply because you’re miserable together? Wasn’t the done thing in my family - but the more marriages I see ending these days, the more I believe it’s better to make a clean break of things. Isn’t just plain unhappiness that’s getting all these people down, after all._
> 
> _Can’t imagine what it was like to get married and divorced at eighteen – procuring an annulment would have been wrenching. You must have been very daring at that age. (Well, you still are.)_
> 
> _Must go - kettle’s boiling over!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Cordially,_
> 
> _Lane_
> 
>  

 

_seven_

 

 

 

> _5/20/65_
> 
> _Dear Lane,_
> 
> _Finally home and had a late dinner - needed something more than tea & cookies! _
> 
> _It feels so funny to be writing this late at night. I keep thinking I can just go across the hall to give this to you once it’s finished. But I doubt Mr. and Mrs. Benning would be game for that. Their Chihuahua barks for hours if you so much as drop a grocery list outside their door._
> 
> _Keep thinking about what you wrote a few replies ago, which is so pithy it should have its own billboard. “If one is sticking to past decisions solely for appearance’s sake, then it is not routine or tradition that they crave; it is stasis. I should tell this to my father if he ever speaks to me again.”_
> 
> _(Turn that bon mot into an advice column and you’ll be a millionaire by this time next month!)_
> 
> _Although, do you consider traditions and routines the same? I don’t think I do. Routines are familiar but not always outdated, and although traditions can be both, they hold more significance._ ~~_Take weddings, for example_ ~~
> 
> _Oh, it’s probably insensitive to make you read a wedding analogy. Although I guess I don’t have room to talk._
> 
> _My hands are starting to hurt, so I’m –  [illegible]_

 

 

 

> _21 May_
> 
> _Dear Joan,_
> 
> _Was there another page to your last letter? Only it ended rather abruptly. I promise not to tease you if you fell asleep over your page – although you must promise me you’re looking after yourself. Let’s not repeat the Wednesday incident._
> 
> _Scarlett and Clara just came in to request a few extra days off for Memorial Day - the same sets of days, in fact, although neither of them gave me a very compelling reason for an extended holiday. Apparently they’d like to take a trip to Atlantic City._
> 
> _Imagine those two trying to drive a car to the shore together – or worse, navigating one out of Manhattan. I don’t think the Metropolitan Transportation Authority is at all prepared for that type of total gridlock._
> 
> _What on earth is Caroline going on about today re: Lucky Strike? She’s come in five times in the last two hours. One would imagine that after a certain number of drinks have been consumed, the switchboard operators or the secretaries would simply stop putting through Lee Garner Junior’s calls to New York._
> 
> _(Not our secretaries, obviously, but perhaps some other seasoned lady, who finds herself less susceptible to his majesty’s mercurial whims. The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman, after all.)_
> 
> _Do you think the North Carolina office has their very own Miss Blankenship? If not, we really ought to find them one, for all our sakes._
> 
> _Cordially,_
> 
> _Lane_

 

 

 

 

> _6/9/65_
> 
> _Dear Lane,_
> 
> _Just re-read your letter from the other week, and laughed so hard at that Lear reference that I snorted tea all over my desk. If Don has a problem with the weird brown spots on all his invoices, I’m going to blame you._
> 
> _Read an interesting article about Elizabeth Taylor in the Times today – the pictures they included of her with her family are just beautiful. She looks so happy. I can’t help hoping that she is, even though I know it’s a stupid thing to want for someone you don’t even know. Have you ever felt that way before? About a celebrity, I mean?_
> 
> ~~_Sometimes I imagine_ ~~
> 
> _Ugh, I need to get a new pen. This one keeps leaking, so if you have recommendations for a replacement brand, I’m all ears. Please keep in mind that the last box I bought came from the drugstore by my apartment._
> 
> _Take care,_
> 
> _Joan_
> 
> _P.S. Don’t tell anyone about the tea; it’s too embarrassing._
> 
> _P.P.S. Just pretending to take notes at the end of this godawful meeting. Here are a few questions at the front of my mind:_
> 
>   1. _Are you doing something new with your hair? I like the style; it suits you!_
>   2. _Stan is making moon-eyes at Peggy across the table, although I don’t think she’s noticed. This isn’t a question, just an observation.  
>  _
>   3. _Do you think Liz Taylor would ever loan me some of her jewelry? I have some new evening gowns I’m dying to debut, but they’re in need of a little extra pizzazz._
> 


 

 

 

 

> _11 June_
> 
> _Dear Joan,_
> 
> _It’s three o’clock on a Tuesday, and you’re currently fast asleep on my sofa, so in lieu of waking you to finish the break evens, I shall endeavor to answer all the questions from your last missive._  
> 
> 
>   1. _Your humorous secret is safe with me - I won’t tell a soul. Although I would dearly have loved seeing you laugh that much - the result must be well worth bringing out my inner (alas - very rusty!) Stratfordian._  
>    
>  _a) A sub-question - have you got a favourite work by the Bard? I don’t think I’ve ever asked._  
>  _b) Unless you’ve another author you like better. Please elaborate if yes._
> 

> 
> _2\.  Actually, I have done precisely what you described - I quite like Miss Taylor’s films, myself. (Or should I call her Mrs. Burton now?) As a young man, I also imagined Julie Andrews would be great fun to meet in person._ _Don’t let’s compare our favourite celebrity idols, else you may get back a rather long treatise on Vivien Leigh’s early works. You have been warned._
> 
> _3.   As to your third point, never trust an inexpensive writing instrument for documents of import! My feelings on this point are firm. Enclosed are several recommendations for replacements on the attached page, separated by cost, effectiveness, and projected longevity._
> 
> _4\.   I am not doing anything new or jolly with my hair. (??) Although now I’m a bit paranoid that the back of it’s gone rogue without my knowledge. Please confirm or deny this hypothesis when you have a moment._
> 
> _5\.   Can’t even wrap my head around your observation re: our esteemed creatives, and so I shall ignore that for a while yet._
> 
> _6\.   If you are able to convince Miss Taylor to drape you in her diamonds, please include photos of the event in question, as I’m extremely curious about when and where these divine gowns will be debuted. No doubt you could outshine any crowd, even in Hollywood.  
>   
>  _
> 
> _Warmly,_
> 
> _Lane_

 

 

_eight_

 

>   
>    _6/30/65_
> 
>  
> 
> _I’m so mad I could_ _scream_ _. What the hell is wrong with the kids in this office?!_
> 
> _Don’t bother writing back; I don’t feel well and am leaving early - just so you know._
> 
> _J_

 

Upon receiving Joan’s letter, Lane actually bolted up from his chair and went to find out what the hell had happened.

Her door was locked - office dark - and in the lounge, all he found was Harry Crane, sitting with several of the others, lamenting loudly how much they would miss poor Joey and how one Miss Margaret Olson had got too big for her britches.

He had no idea what they were talking about, but the idea that someone could have been fired without his knowledge or even a brief consultation set his blood boiling.

Lane ended up storming into Don’s office, startling both Don and Stan from the campaign they were reviewing.

“I’ve just heard, although I’m sure I am mistaken, that Mr. Baird has just been _sacked?_ ”

“Yeah.” Don let out a sigh. “And?”

“ _And?!_ Were you going to notify me, _as current hiring manager_ , or was I meant to find out via gossip in the stenography pool?!”

“It’s ‘cause of the drawing,” Stan interrupted through a slurp of coffee. “You miss that part?”

Lane stopped short, felt more lost than before. “What drawing?”

“Jesus.” Don’s mouth thinned. “Look, Lane. We handled it, and it’s over.”

Lane fixed him with a mutinous look. None of this sounded appropriate. “What. _Drawing._ ”

Wordlessly, Don went to his wastebasket, pulled out a large piece of paper, and handed this to Lane, face-down. “Joey taped it to Joan’s window. So Peggy fired him.”

A grin tugged at the corner of Stan’s mouth, as if he were having his own private joke. When Lane took the piece of paper from Don and flipped it over, he saw why, and blanched.

His hands began to tremble. “You showed th _–_ this _obscenity._ To Mrs. Harris. On purpose.”

“Look, man, I didn’t do it.”

 _“Shut up!”_ Lane balled up the drawing in one shaking fist, and shut his eyes for a second before turning back to Stan. The only thought in his head - unutterable - was _you’ve ruined everything._ “This is how you spend your time here?”

The humor in Stan’s face had been replaced by apprehension. “Hey, don’t blame me! I wasn’t the one who–”

_“I don’t give a damn who it was!”_

Don held up two hands for peace. “Come on. Don’t make this worse than it is.”

Lane would not be silent. “Let me be clear: should you or anyone in this office disrespect either Mrs. Harris or myself in such a way again, you will _long_ for the tender mercies of Miss Olson and a swift–”

“Okay. He gets it,” Don said flatly. “Are you done?”

Stan was silent, and looked more wary than Lane had ever seen him.

Lane took a step backwards, watched both men’s body language relax. He could still feel a muscle twitching in his jaw. “For now.”

 

 

> _Joan,_
> 
>  
> 
> ~~_I know why you’re upset_ ~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~_Please don’t think that I want_ ~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~_Of course you would never_ ~~

 

Six drafts later, he finally managed to put something into words.

 

 

> _J –_
> 
>  
> 
> _Heard a certain member of the creative team got sacked. Can’t say I’ll miss the ass at all – long overdue._
> 
>  
> 
> _Hope you’re feeling better._
> 
>  
> 
> _L_

 

 

_nine_

  

 

 

 

> _14 November_
> 
> _Dear Joan,_
> 
> _All things considered, this reply is shamefully late, but I think this is the first chance I’ve had to sit down at my desk without being bombarded by a sea of pink slips._
> 
> _Do you know, we’ve been writing each other for nearly a year already? How time flies. ~~I~~_ ~~_’m so glad that we_~~ _I’m thankful our initial misunderstanding had such a positive outcome; can’t imagine what it would be like here if we weren’t trading letters. Beyond being the Scrooges who deny everyone Christmas bonuses._
> 
> _When is your mother coming in for the holiday? Wednesday or Thursday?_
> 
> _An acquaintance of mine from the 4As has invited me to spend Thanksgiving with his family. It’s just him and his wife, nothing momentous, but I was cheered to receive their invitation. Jim is very considerate, and he’s taken great pains to ensure my transition to the board has gone smoothly, so with luck we shall have a nice time of it. Think we’ll watch the parade and probably a bit of American football. Too bad it’s too cold for a real sport – I’d dearly enjoy seeing the Mets play before next spring._
> 
> _If I don’t catch you before everyone leaves for the week, I hope you have a very relaxing day. Have your mother make most of the dishes – that is, if she can cook? (I don’t know which of your parents bestowed their immense culinary talents upon your head)_
> 
> _– and I expect this very cheeky remark will provoke your wrath, or at the very least, will get a plate of raw giblets tossed at my face once we return to work._
> 
> _Much to be thankful for!_
> 
> _Warmly,_
> 
> _Lane_

 

 

 

 

> _12/18/65_
> 
> _Dear Lane,_
> 
> _You are such a sweetheart – just found the Christmas present you hid in my desk!_ _Thank you_ _. It’s gorgeous. _
> 
> _No idea how you managed to sneak this past the girls, but all of those questions about children’s books and stuffed animals now make a lot more sense._
> 
> _(Never owned a second edition before; I’m almost afraid to open it!)_
> 
> _Although I do love the map of the Hundred Acre Wood drawn on the inside pages. I always thought this would make such a cute film – we’ll have to go see the cartoon once it comes out in February._
> 
> _Sorry about the water drops. I promise they’re happy tears! And I’ll be much more careful with the book when I read it to the baby._
> 
> _Merrily – tearfully –  
>  _
> 
> _Joan_

 

 

 

> _[UNSENT]_
> 
> _Happy new year, darling. What a strange thing it was to see you walk into the room this morning after two weeks apart. You will never know how often I imagine you sauntering up to me the way you did – eyes sparkling and hips swaying as you rushed forward to hug me hello – or how much I adore you. I love you better than the smell of freshly cut grass in summer, or the whisper of snow at my window on these frightful wonderful New York mornings. You mix me up so dreadfully, you know, and when I dream of you it’s as if I’m pulled under by the strongest current. Sometimes I love you so much it frequently drives me mad._
> 
> _Your Lane_

 

 

 

 

> _2/19/67_
> 
> _Dear Lane,_
> 
> _Why, yes, I AM using the new fountain pen you got me, so if my words have a new, incredible import from here to eternity, you’ll know why._
> 
> _Regarding my birthday, I’m trying to pretend I don’t even have one this year, so no more surprises until March, if you can stand to wait that long. In related news, found another big grey hair this morning, and had to pluck it out with my bare hands at the kitchen table._ _God, I hate aging._ _How do you stand being so much older than me all the time?_
> 
> _(See, I’m really trying to have a sense of humor about this, so your cheesy jokes haven’t all been duds. Except the one about Princess Margaret - I will never ever_ _ever_ _forgive you for putting that picture in my head! Ha!)_
> 
> _Clara has been avoiding me ever since her idiot mix-up with the expense reports. Time to terrify the girls to make sure it doesn’t happen again!_
> 
> _Vainly – stubbornly –_
> 
> _Joan_

 

  

 

 

 

> _19 Feb_
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Stubbornest One,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Don’t fret – have cancelled the giant cake. The young chap who was going to leap out of the middle and onto the conference room table in his best penguin suit is very disappointed, but is bearing the whole thing up as best he can._
> 
> _(I, on the other hand: inconsolable! The best laid plans, &c….) _
> 
> _Put us both out of our miseries at once, and please inform me what you would abhor doing on your unbirthday – i.e., any day but Friday. We can but aim to make it ghastly – perhaps by starting in on Harry Crane’s backlog of expense reports?_
> 
>  
> 
> _Dolorously,_
> 
> _Lane_

 

 

 

_ten_

  

 

 

 

> _4/1/66_
> 
> _L –_
> 
> _Did you hear that the Queen Mother is getting remarried to one of her Balmoral groundskeepers??? What a world. I guess romance is everywhere…._
> 
> _JH_

 

 

 

 

> _1 April_
> 
> _Dear Evil Prankstress,_
> 
> _I’ll have you know I asked no less than SIX people to verify this before realizing today’s date and getting my hands on a paper. How very dare you._
> 
> _Gullibly,_
> 
> _Lane_
> 
> _P.S. Lunch today? Promise I won’t switch the salt and sugar on you –_ _or will I?_

 

 

 

 

 

> _11 April_
> 
> _Dear Radiant Lady,_
> 
> _Can’t believe you’re set to go on leave already, although I’m sure you’re ready for the little one to break his semi-permanent lease. Before Nigel was born, Becca and I were on pins and needles throughout, but the penultimate week seemed to crawl by._
> 
> _As you narrow down your list of names, please do reconsider Engelbert or Fitzwilliam or any of the other extremely sophisticated options I submitted for approval._
> 
> _How on earth shall I manage without you? An unanswerable riddle._
> 
> _Time for our one o’clock, so I suppose I ought to wrap this up. Not looking forward to conducting the review alone this time next month – think of me fondly once you’re all cozy at home in your pyjamas._
> 
> _Enviously,_
> 
> _Lane_

 

 

 

 

> _4/13/66_
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Lane,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Feel free to corral the green-eyed monster. Being home during the daytime is much less comfortable when an overgrown baby keeps kicking you in the ribs. If I had it my way, I’d be sprawled out on a sofa with a piece of Veniero’s tiramisu – sadly, I think Mom is going to try to put me on a diet the minute she gets here._
> 
> _Enough about rabbit food. Is it silly to say I miss the office? Because I’m starting to understand why Charlotte Gilman Perkins wrote_ The Yellow Wallpaper _; after four days of doing nothing but trying to straighten up the house and run a few last-minute errands, I’m almost ready to pull my hair out._
> 
> _It’s too bad you can’t come over for a cup of tea. I’d kill to hear one of your terrible jokes right now - even the one about Princess Margaret and the one-legged jockey. That’s_ ~~_how much I miss you_~~ _how nostalgic I am._
> 
> _(Tell the marauders next door that I’m even beginning to miss their screams!)_
> 
>  
> 
> _Wistfully,_
> 
> _Joan_

 

Once Joan heard the knock at the door, she sat up with a groan, swung her legs down to the floor, and padded to the hallway in her yellow floral robe, collared pajamas, and bare feet; expecting to see her mother on the other side.

But when she opened it, Lane was standing there instead, wearing his hat and raincoat and holding a paper grocery bag in each hand.

Color rushed into her cheeks. “Oh.”

Across the hall, tiny yaps echoed through the Bennings’ front door.

“Hello.” He gestured toward her with one bag. “Erm. Saw your letter, and I thought we could give the routine one last go, for old times’ sake. If that’s all right.”

Understanding washed over her all at once. “You brought tea?”

“Plus something to eat.” A pause. “Sorry, I ought to have phoned. It is all right that I’m here, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Come in.” She motioned him forward. “Just don’t judge the house.”

Leading him into the living room, Joan tried not to think about how half her wardrobe was on full display in the hamper, or how she clearly hadn’t done as much cleaning as her letter suggested, but Lane didn’t seem to notice, just made a beeline for the kitchen table and put his bounty on top of it.

Immediately, he removed a teapot, two cups, and saucers from the first paper bag; each piece of china was wrapped in newspaper.

Joan blinked at all of this in shock. “What did you do?”

“Well, I won’t spoil the surprise. Suffice to say I’ve brought sustenance.” Lane took out a small Tupperware, glanced around the living room. “Sorry. Do you have a serving dish anywhere?”

“Top left cabinet, above the stove.”

Without a word, he went to get it.

“Oh, that’s a nice pattern.” A cabinet door squeaked as it closed; his voice carried into the living room. “Have you put your feet up yet?”

“What?” Joan fought back a laugh. “No. Laundry’s in the way.”

Lane poked his head out of the kitchen. “Well, I could move that for you, if you like. Where should it go?”

Joan meant to say _no, I’ve got it,_ but something very different sailed out of her mouth instead. “Just put it on my bed. I already washed everything.”

Without another word, Lane walked over, picked up the basket, and maneuvered it easily into her bedroom before coming back out and shutting the door.

When their eyes met, he smiled at her. “There you are. Now, you get settled, and I’ll have everything all ready in a few minutes.”

Bemused, she slowly lowered herself onto the sofa, and they spent the next ten minutes catching up as Lane boiled water and set small sandwiches on platters and took one of the grocery bags into the kitchen.

“Let me guess,” Joan drawled as he rummaged through her silverware drawer, “I’m not allowed to know what’s in there, either.”

“Not in the least,” Lane called back. “But the kettle’s ready now.”

 

**

 

“All right. Cover your eyes; I’m going to bring out the last dish.”

They’d finished half a pot of strong black tea and the tea sandwiches Lane had made -- and when the hell he’d gotten the time to do any of that on a weekday, Joan had no idea.

Now, here he was in her living room, making his silly jokes and stuffing her full of bread and making her laugh more in an hour than she had in the past three days.

She really had missed this. She’d missed him.

And so when he cleared his throat from the kitchen doorway, and Joan finally pulled her hands away from her face to see a grinning Lane balancing a giant plate of tiramisu in both hands, she burst into tears.

Lane immediately put down the dessert so he could kneel next to her chair, looking horrified. “Don’t you like it?”

“I do,” Joan sobbed. “I do. I’m sorry.”

“What on earth are you sorry about?”

“‘M too fat to eat it.”

“What?”

“I’m fat, and _ugly–_ ”

“Absolutely not!”

“You don’t have to spare my feelings.” Joan sniffed; gave him a knowing look as he handed her his handkerchief. “I heard Harry and Pete gossiping in the break room before I left. They called me a butterball.”

Lane looked outraged. “Those bastards!”

Joan pulled a face.

“God knows how – I mean, look at you, Joan, you’re – exquisite.”

“Not like this.” She swiped fresh tears from her cheeks.

“Hush.” Lane leaned forward and encircled Joan in a hug, and before she could respond, his whiskers scratched pleasantly against her cheek as he dropped a kiss against her earlobe. “Even like this. I promise.”

Joan let out a watery huff. “That’s my ear.”

“Whoops.” Lane rumbled out a laugh against her neck. “Get the other one, even it up?”

She made an assenting noise. He switched sides, tilted his head so his profile fit into the curve of her neck, and brushed his lips over the shell of her left ear.

Joan let out a soft sigh. “Tickles.”

Lane pulled back slightly, kissed her cheek with a soft _smack_. “Here. One more for luck.”

As he moved backwards again, her eyes fluttered open, and their gazes locked.

Without thinking, she leaned forward to close the distance between them, and pressed her lips to Lane’s. He made a surprised noise against her mouth; when she tilted her head to deepen the kiss, he actually moaned.

Joan pulled away at the noise, both hands flying up to her stomach. They blinked at each other in surprise for a few seconds, but no one said a word.

Lane opened and shut his mouth, like he wanted to speak but couldn’t; he just stood up from his chair, turned around, and promptly sat back down again, one hand ghosting over the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Joan finally whispered, after what felt like an eternity.

“No.” Lane put his hand over hers, then seemed to re-think this, and pulled it back. “Don’t be.”

She sniffed, and her mouth twitched again in an ominous way.

"Will this cheer you up?" Lane leaned forward and lowered his voice to a playful murmur. “One day, Princess Margaret went out to the Royal stables, and came upon a handsome, one-legged jockey seated on her best horse.”

“Oh, god.” Joan covered her eyes. “Not again.”

“Of course, she demanded to know how on earth he’d mounted and ridden it! And the jockey answered: Highness, I’d offer to show you, but you’d find it terribly shocking.”

How dare you, said she. I am Companion of the Crown of India, GCVO, Colonel-in-Chief of the 15th-slash-19th, and Countess of Snowdon, and I’ve mettle enough to know the answer. I hereby demand you reveal your tricks. And so the one-legged jockey looked at her and said–”

“I’m gonna throw this tiramisu in your face if you don’t quit,” Joan interrupted, and uncovered her eyes.

“Don’t you dare.” He ducked his head on a grin, and finally moved backwards. “Here. I’ll just - see to the rest of the dishes.”

Things were quiet for the next ten or fifteen minutes while Lane cleaned up the kitchen and Joan did her best to pick up around the table. It wasn’t until he emerged with pastry box in hand and offered to split the tiramisu with her that they spoke again.

But before he left, just after he draped his coat over one arm and before he walked out the door, Joan couldn’t resist putting her arms around his neck one more time.

 

_eleven_

 

 

 

> 29 May
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Joan,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Many thanks for the pictures. My words can’t do justice to Kevin’s button nose or his tiny little hands (a marvel), but I’m thrilled to have some all the same. He’s a very handsome chap – you should be proud._
> 
> _Wish I’d thought to take pictures during Don’s surprise party; you’d have been amazed at the burlesque Mrs. Draper put on for all of us. Or horrified. But either way, you ought to have been there. It really wasn’t the same without you._
> 
> _When shall we see each other next? Are you free to pop round to the office for some tea in the near future?_
> 
>  
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Lane_

 

  

 

 

> _6/2/66_
> 
>  
> 
> _How about Tuesday or Wednesday? I’m free almost anytime...unless I'm catching up on sleep._
> 
>  
> 
> _JH_

 

 

 

 

> _6/11/66_
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Lane,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Sorry about the fountain of tears in your office. Why is it that every time we see each other, I start crying? Honestly, I’ll be so glad once I stop weeping over everything from sappy commercials to spilled cereal. I’ve been a river since I had the baby._
> 
> _On an unrelated note: our time together was a breath of fresh air after being away for so long. You know how much I hate being alone – but you also know just what to say to make me feel better. I’m so grateful to have you in my life._
> 
> _Lunch once I'm back?_
> 
>  
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Joan_

 

 

 

 

 

> _11 Jun_
> 
>  
> 
> _Always. Stuck to the telephone at the moment - pick the time & place. _
> 
>  
> 
> _LP_

 

 

 

 

 

> _29 Jul_
> 
> _3:45PM_
> 
>  
> 
> _My hands are shaking so much I can hardly write – just threw Greg out of the house._
> 
> _He VOLUNTEERED for ANOTHER deployment and didn’t bother to tell me –_ _and worse_ _– didn’t see why I was upset! As if it wasn’t obvious!! _
> 
> _By this point it’s clear he doesn’t love me or Kevin, if he ever did…so it’s over. He’ll go back to Vietnam, and Mom will keep helping me with the baby._
> 
> _God, it’s so stupid to write to you when I could just pick up the phone, but I don’t think I could get a word out, and if I hear your voice then I’ll want to see you & hug you & – _
> 
> _Well, I just need you. That’s the truth. _
> 
>  
> 
> _Joan_

 

_twelve_

 

The next morning, Joan got to work early, still melancholy after lying in bed for most of the weekend. She hung up her jacket and sat down at her desk, unable to summon up enthusiasm for anything other than fiddling with the eraser by her adding machine.

But there was a sealed envelope in her letter tray already – Lane’s handwriting.

Joan ripped it open and scanned this as quickly as she could.

 

> _Dear Joan,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Woke up this morning and found your letter on my doorstep with the morning paper. Your line was engaged and I wasn’t sure if I should come over, lest your mother have too many questions – so here I am, replying in kind._
> 
> _As to your first revelation: congratulations on tossing the bastard out on his ear. Damn him and very good riddance._
> 
> _As to the second: wish you_ _had_ _phoned. Mainly because I keep reading the last line of your letter over and over, desperately hoping that I take its meaning correctly. You must know that you hold a very unique place in my mind – and in my heart, too. _
> 
> _Nothing else to say - I’m here - come whenever you wish.  
>    
>  _
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Lane_

 

Joan was already scrawling out a reply, fast.

 

 

> _Dear Lane – I’m scared if I don’t send this now, we’ll chalk everything up to bad timing and never mention it again. So here goes: when you care about someone –_ _when you love them_ _– you want them to be happier than anyone else in the world. When I said I needed you, that’s what I meant. When I said I missed you, that’s what I meant. When we’re together I feel seen & alive & _ _happ_ _y_ _ & I want to make you feel that way all the time. I guess that’s it. I love you. I want you. What do you say? _
> 
>  
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Joan_

 

By the time Joan sealed up this letter, her fingers were trembling, and the rest of the office was starting to stir.

When she thought the coast was clear, she nipped over to Lane’s closed door, bent down, and slipped the envelope underneath before she could think too much about it.

Ten minutes later - after an interval spent pacing in the kitchen, pretending to wait on the coffeemaker even though she hadn’t drunk coffee in months - Joan came back to her office and found a second letter on her desk.

 

 

 

> _To you, my darling;_
> 
>  
> 
> _You write as if I should have known all your lovely feelings intimately – and I should have done – am often an idiot about these things – but no, that is certainly not IT!!_
> 
> _How on earth could it be?_ _You’ve told me you love me._
> 
> _Even imagining you want me as much as I do you is remarkable - beautiful - glorious. I love you, I love you ––_
> 
> _and I’m an utter fool for not telling you sooner._
> 
> _And now I think we really ought to speak in person…. come as soon as you get this. _
> 
>  
> 
> _Your Lane_

 

Oh, god, oh, god. Joan allowed herself a minute of silent, teeth-clenching agonizing at her desk before standing up, smoothing down her dress, and walking into the hallway so she could catch Scarlett’s eye.

“Is he available?”

Scarlett beamed at Joan when they locked eyes. “Good morning. I think he’s free.” She hit the buzzer. “Mr. Pryce? Joan’s here to see you.”

Inside, a small clanging crash - a beat - a deceptively calm voice over the intercom.

“Ah. Send her in, please.”

Scarlett gave Joan an amused look that said this kind of thing was normal.

Joan pretended not to see it, schooled her features into a carefully neutral expression, and opened the door.

 

 

_epilogue_

 

 

 

 

> _4/15/67_
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Hot Pants,_
> 
>  
> 
> _See – I_ _can_ _use the word pants your way when I want to. By the way, I like yours today – trousers, that is. Flash me a little leg next time I see you._
> 
> _XOXO  
>  _ _Joan_
> 
>  
> 
> _P.S. I want vegetables for lunch. Diner around the corner okay?_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _15 April_
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Trouser Minx,_
> 
> _I did not know that discussing this year’s taxes would put you into such a state – next time we visit our accountant I shall be keeping a watchful eye on you!_
> 
> _Will accept your compliment about the trousers with pleasure and will also return it in kind – the denim dungarees you wore last weekend very nearly ruined me. You must put them on for no one else, not even your mother – for clearly they are no ordinary item of clothing. They are the color of your eyes after you’ve been satisfied - as deep a blue as the depths of the ocean. They cling to you like a second skin, soft and sturdy all at once. Walking along in your go-go boots and jeans and your blousy tunic, you glided along the sidewalk like a one-woman show. And, since we are speaking of sidewalk shows, and your thrilling public indecency in said clothes, will you, incidentally, permit me to fuck you this afternoon?_
> 
> _Yours truly (you have just come into the room),_
> 
> _LP_
> 
>  
> 
> _[two minutes later]_
> 
>  
> 
> _[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/138656560@N06/26849825589/in/dateposted-public/) _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Y'ALL. Never delete anything you write because sometimes you find it again and have the perfect idea on how to end it. This fic is from like 2012 or 2013 and I stumbled on it in my Dropbox while looking for some other stuff. Finished it and even did a little Photoshop to match.....now back to everything I was avoiding!


End file.
